by Carol Hedges
“Look at the state of you! You are soaked! And your hands! What would Mama say if she could see you?”
“I do not know. The question is immaterial in any case as Mama is dead.”
Lobelia purses her thin lips.
“Indeed, she is. Driven to an early grave by a broken heart. And who broke her heart?”
“The heart has no bones so it cannot be broken,” Hyacinth repeats automatically.
It is a phrase she has found particularly comforting over the past few weeks.
Lobelia stares at her. She frowns.
“So, if you will excuse me, Lobelia, I should like to get on,” Hyacinth says.
“Wait!” Lobelia commands.
Hyacinth pauses.
“I have something I wish to say to you. You may not be aware that I have recently written to the Overseas Missionary Society for the Conversion of the African Heathen, asking to go out to Africa as a missionary. As has my dear friend Bethica. Today we heard that we have both been accepted. It is our intention to unburden ourselves of the onerous responsibilities and duties imposed upon us both. We are called to fulfil a higher and more noble calling.”
Lobelia smirks complacently.
“I see,” Hyacinth answers. “How will you manage financially?”
“The church will fund us – Reverend Bittersplit is going to take up a collection. Bethica has a small inheritance from a deceased relative. And as I shall not be returning to this country, I shall sell the house.”
Hyacinth feels the ground under her feet sliding sideways.
“Sell the house? But where shall I live? I have nowhere to go.”
Lobelia shrugs.
“Mama left the house to me in her Will. It is up to me to do with it whatever I want. You are not my concern. You are no longer worthy of my concern.”
“You would be happy to see your own sister made homeless?”
Silence. It would appear to be so.
Hyacinth takes a deep breath. She is not sure where all the terrible anger piling up inside her is coming from, but she is powerless to stop it now.
“If you try to sell this house,” she says, the words issuing forth fast and hot, like molten lava, “then I shall write to your Christian Missionary Society and tell them that you have turned your own sister out into the street to starve. Once they know that, I do not think they will be quite so keen to take you on. And I shall write to the newspapers and expose you for the hypocrite you are. And I shall write to every member of the church too, and tell them what you have done.”
Lobelia’s jaw drops.
“I do not believe you! You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, I would dare,” Hyacinth continues recklessly. “Believe me, it’d give me no greater pleasure. Because, you see, I have remembered what happened when we were children. That day when Billy disappeared.
“It was YOU who let go of the perambulator, Lobelia, not me. I was in the shop buying sweets. When I came out, you told me a nice lady had taken the baby away because she didn’t have a baby of her own. I was too small to understand what you had done.
“When we got home, you went straight to Mama and blamed me. You both blamed me. Over and over again, until I too came to believe your lies. You are a vile, evil woman, Lobelia Clout. You were jealous of the baby, and you got rid of him. Jealous, nasty and cruel.
“I think I might even go to the police and tell them what you did all those years ago. I expect there is some law about abandoning babies. You could go to prison.”
Lobelia staggers back, the colour draining from her face.
Emboldened, Hyacinth takes a few steps towards her.
“So, this is what I suggest: go out to Africa as a missionary. Good riddance. I will stay in the house and look after it. Otherwise, I will take up my pen and ruin your precious reputation forever.”
The silence between them is so thick you could cut it and serve it in slices.
Then without a further word, Lobelia Clout sweeps past her sister, her eyes spitting hatred. She mounts the stairs. Hyacinth remains in the hallway. She is still shaking from the violence of her outburst. She hears the sound of something heavy being dragged along the floor. Time crawls broken-backed. She finds herself unable to move. Eventually Lobelia appears on the landing dragging a trunk behind her.
“I have packed my belongings,” she announces stiffly. “I will not remain in the same house as you a moment longer. I shall stay with Phyllis and her dear mother, until such time as I quit these shores.”
Hyacinth waits until the front door closes on her sister, until the sound of the cab’s wheels fade into the distance. Only then does she let out her breath in one long sigh. Quietness envelops her.
After all the shouting and tension the silence is almost tangibly calming, as if relief could be breathed in on air. Her arms close round herself like those of a lover. She catches sight of her reflection in the hallway mirror and is surprised to see that she is smiling.
****
Hyacinth Clout awakes next day to a sunny morning and a clear conscience. She has done the right thing in confronting her sister. The absence of said sister from their shared home cannot be laid at her door. And the joy of no longer having to feel guilty about something she didn’t do is almost overwhelming.
No longer at the mercy of the daily routine, she takes her time getting up. She breakfasts in the kitchen, on leftovers from the night before, and still wearing her morning wrapper, her hair bundled carelessly into a net. The house is totally silent. A whole glorious golden day lies ahead of her, just waiting to be filled with whatever she decides to do. She is not bounded by having to shop, or clean, or prepare meals.
Hyacinth decides to explore the city of her birth, its highways and byways, nooks and corners. She has lived in London all her life, yet she knows less about it than she does about the exciting places she has encountered in her reading of fiction.
Today she will begin her journey, starting with Westminster Abbey. She would like to see Poets’ Corner and read Milton’s Ode to Shakespeare for herself. And she can treat herself to a nice luncheon in a tea-room after her visit as she doesn’t have to hurry home to prepare food. In the afternoon, she has an important appointment to keep. One that she hopes will determine the course of her future life. She goes up to her bedroom and dresses carefully.
****
The office of Raven & Rooke, Solicitors, is situated in one of the old quiet courts off Chancery Lane. So old and quiet is the court, that the noise of the city seems to have passed it by entirely. Even the trees in the old square rustle quietly in the breeze, blowing dust quietly into the still air as afternoon sunshine streams down from a silent sky.
Mr Juniper, the old lawyers’ clerk, sits behind a high wooden desk under a dusty skylight in the outer office of Raven & Rooke, an array of quills in a jar and a bottle of black ink to hand. He is copying a Will. His pen wanders along the fine manuscript paper, scribing bequests and withholdings in flowing copperplate.
The lives of the living are predicated upon the lives of the dead, which always lead back, never ahead. Once you grasp this detrimental mastery, you understand all there is to know about the human condition. Mr Juniper understands it completely.
The front door bell rings. He gets up creakily from his work and goes to answer it. Standing outside the brass-plated door is a young woman. Of no particular beauty, or fineness of attire, but with a grim and purposeful expression on her face.
“I am here to see Mr Raven. I have an appointment,” she announces, smoothing her gloves.
Mr Juniper bows and shows her to the inner office. She sits in the cliental chair, which is placed next to Mr Raven’s chair, high-backed black horsehair with rows of brass rivets.
“Mr Raven is in Court at present, but I expect him imminently,” he says.
“Then I shall sit here and await his return.”
Mr Juniper returns to his copying. The quill pen scratches its way across the paper. The clock in the outer o
ffice ticks loudly. Who knows what the client is doing. Eventually Mr Raven arrives, is informed that the client is waiting, and strides into his office, closing the door.
Mr Juniper dips his quill into the ink-bottle.
The clock ticks. The quill pen scratches. Then the door to the inner office opens. Mr Juniper rises to his feet politely. The client emerges, her expression even more grimly determined. She barely acknowledges the presence of the clerk as she sweeps across the outer office and goes out into the bright sunshine.
Mr Juniper takes his seat. He reaches for the blotter and rolls it across the lines of flowing copperplate writing. Another task completed. He wipes the nib on a flannel and begins the next copying task.
Meanwhile the client hails a hansom and gives the driver instructions. Arriving home, she pays the one shilling and sixpence fare, alights and goes quickly inside, untying her bonnet strings and throwing off her shawl as she passes through the door.
Hyacinth makes her way straight to the morning room, where she seats herself at the writing desk. She takes a sheet of notepaper and a pen, and after chewing the end of the pen for a couple of seconds, writes the following:
Dear Lobelia,
Today I paid a visit to Mr Raven, Mama’s trusted solicitor. As you may recall, I was not present at the reading of Mama’s Will as I remained at home, indisposed with a headache. Afterwards you were kind enough to relay the contents to me. Like the fool I seem to have been, I believed what you told me.
But now, having studied the Will for myself at Mr Raven’s chambers, I know what Mama’s actual last wishes were. As you know, the ownership of the house was indeed bequeathed to you, on the understanding that you would live in it continuously during your lifetime.
But if you chose, for any reason whatsoever, to quit the house, the ownership then passed to me. Mama was quite clear about this. I have consulted Mr Raven and he is of the opinion that, should you decide to leave England to work as a missionary in Africa, you would no longer be ‘living continuously in the house’.
Indeed, you are currently no longer living in the house, having chosen to move out and abide elsewhere. Therefore, by default, I am now the sole owner. Mr Raven has been kind enough to put all this in writing, so that it is quite clear and irrefutable should anybody try to contest it.
You are not now or at any time in the future, in a position to sell the house, nor to turn me out into the street.
Your sister,
Hyacinth
Two days later, just as she is beginning to settle into her new life, Hyacinth returns from Mudie’s with a new novel to find a letter lying face downwards in the hallway. Even after all this time, even after all that has happened, her heart suddenly misses a beat and she finds it hard to swallow.
She picks up the envelope and turns it over. She recognises the handwriting instantly. With a sinking feeling, she carries the letter into the morning room and opens it.
Dear Hyacinth (she reads),
I have been made aware of the departure of your sister from the family home and the sad events leading up to it. It is my duty and intention to call upon you this afternoon with the purpose of discussing this, and certain other matters arising from it.
Yours,
In His Name,
E. N. Bittersplit (Revd.)
A large chunk of gold flakes off the day. It is clear that Lobelia has not wasted any time. She has been gone for less than a week, and already she is calling up reinforcements. He is going to lecture her, Hyacinth thinks gloomily. He is going to harangue and harass her. He is going to bully and browbeat her. He is probably going to quote obscure verses from the Bible. He is certainly going to take Lobelia’s side. She wonders what the N stands for. Nuisance is rather too obvious.
And how typical of him not to state an exact time. As if she has nothing better to do but remain in the house awaiting his arrival. Hyacinth is just preparing to mount the stairs to her room to tidy her hair, when the doorbell rings. She recognises Reverend Bittersplit, a tall shadow behind the stained-glass panel. His head is framed in a yellow semicircle, like a malign halo.
For one mad moment, she toys with the idea of hiding somewhere until he goes away. But this would only be putting off the inevitable. Reminding herself that she has already won the primary skirmish with Lobelia, and that whatever happens, this is her house now, she takes a deep breath and walks slowly to the front door.
A short while later Reverend Bittersplit is sitting, very black and upright in what was once Mama’s favourite chair, then Lobelia’s, but is definitely now going to be given away to some charitable concern.
He folds his arms and regards Hyacinth with an expression of quelling disapproval. She notices there is a droplet of water on the end of his beaked nose. She focuses on it, trying to keep her expression blank as she awaits the tirade.
“I am pleased to find you at home, Hyacinth,” he begins. “From what you sister tells me, home is a place where you have rarely presenced yourself.”
“If that were so, my sister would probably have starved,” Hyacinth counters. “As we do not have a servant and Lobelia cannot cook, I am forced always to be here to prepare the food and cook our meals. Did she look starved to you when you saw her last?”
Reverend Bittersplit’s bushy eyebrows rise up sharply, like two black crows in a stubbled field.
“I do not understand this attitude, Hyacinth. Ephesians 5, verse 11.”
Hyacinth pinches her lips together to stop the words from falling out. She recalls reading somewhere that every person living in London is only a few feet away from a rat. She guesses it is, like most things, a matter of interpretation.
“What has my sister said?”
Reverend Bittersplit’s face takes on a sad and sympathetic expression.
“She has explained, fully and frankly, the circumstances leading up to her departure from the house. She blames herself, of course. Had she been more aware of the way your dear Mama’s death had affected you, she would have taken steps to provide you with the medical help you so clearly need much earlier, whatever the cost to herself.”
Hyacinth gapes at him.
“Lobelia thinks I am ILL? What did she say?”
“She described the way you were ranting and raving at her in such a frightening manner that she felt for her own safety that she could not stay in the house a minute longer. She has also mentioned your many disappearances from the house for long periods with no explanation as to where you went.
“Is this the behaviour of a normal person? It is your sister’s opinion that the death of your dearly beloved mother has affected your mind to an alarming extent causing it to become unhinged.
“I, too, have noticed the sad changes in you, as have several members of the congregation who have privately expressed their concern. Your sister believes you may be suffering from melancholia of the spirit and that you should not be left unattended to stay here on your own, where you might become a danger to yourself.”
He leans forward and regards her earnestly.
“There are places, Hyacinth. Good, kind places where one may go and be, in the fullness of time and with the right treatment, restored to health. I know of one such place in Sussex. A fine Christian place run by Catholic nuns. They are very kindly souls and the regime is not too strenuous. No cold baths and locked rooms. No indeed. We live in a modern age after all.”
“I see,” Hyacinth says woodenly.
So, Lobelia is putting it about that she, Hyacinth, has lost her mind. Which, if proved, would also mean losing her liberty and her freedom, and being incarcerated in some private lunatic asylum where she’d be left to rot away for the rest of her days.
Hyacinth has recently finished reading The Woman in White, thus she knows exactly what might happen to her. If she allows it to happen. Presumably the upside of any such diagnosis would allow Lobelia to sell the house and pocket all the money from the sale.
“I think I should like to have a word with my sister,”
she says grimly. “Several words, actually,” she amends.
Reverend Bittersplit tweaks his collar, as if it is suddenly too tight and is constricting his breathing.
“I’m afraid that will not be possible. She and my daughter will be sailing for Africa shortly and they are both entirely engrossed in their preparations. She has left it up to me to reason with you and see whether you are willing to comply with her wishes.”
“And if I am not?”
Reverend Bittersplit stares at his hands. Kneads his thighs. Twists the gold signet ring on his little finger a couple of times. Then he rises and stands in front of the empty hearth, swaying to and fro without speaking for several minutes. His lips are compressed and his eyes seem to be almost starting out of his head. It is most disconcerting.
Hyacinth is about to suggest some tea – if she can be trusted to make her way to the kitchen without falling into a fit and attacking herself – when he suddenly bursts out,
“I cannot but speak now. What I am about to say, Hyacinth – nay, to ask, is something that I have been mulling over in my mind for some time. I have indeed been wrestling with my soul, praying about it and seeking guidance from a Higher Power.”
Reverend Bittersplit’s face is twisted, as if the agony of the struggle between his inner vicar and the Almighty has all but overpowered him. Hyacinth watches him in great alarm. There is something unreal about what is unfolding. She glances at the poker and wonders whether she ought to lay hold of it.
“You know my situation. I am alone, and have been for many years. Bethica has grown up without the guiding hand of her mother who was taken from us soon after my daughter entered this world. It was God’s Will to inflict this suffering upon us both and I accepted His Yoke and shouldered His Burden without complaint.
“But now Bethica is a grown woman, and about to embark upon her own life. Which brings me to what I wish to say to you, Hyacinth.”
To Hyacinth’s complete horror, Reverend Bittersplit suddenly lurches forward, and grasps one of her hands, almost hauling her to her feet.